Let Her Go
by Lady Lanera
Summary: Sometimes, all it requires is letting a person go before you realize how much you love him or her. (Dramione)


_Disclaimer: _All _Harry Potter _characters belong to J.K. Rowling, obviously.

**A/N:** Just a short one-shot that popped into my mind the other day after hearing Passenger's "Let Her Go" song on the radio. Enjoy. :)

Leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, the middle-aged man sighed deeply and sunk lower in the warm soapy water. He could vaguely hear the eerie sound of the branches scrapping against the outside glass of the bathroom window, but he did his best to ignore all that. For all his cares in the world simply didn't matter as long as he was in the bath, and for that he thanked Merlin.

It seemed a lifetime ago, and quite frankly someone else's life rather than his own, that he'd had any worries. Any cares. Any _anything _really. In fact, it was all just perfect now. His life, that was. Just perfect. He couldn't have planned it any better if he had tried.

He had the stately manor complete with all the trimmings that he was used to. He had the beautiful wife, forever having eyes only for him. As it should be. He had the two perfect children who hung upon his every word. It was really all quite perfect. In fact, his father, if the man had lived to be there, would have only been so proud. And, yet, something was missing. Or rather something was lying just there underneath the perfect, lurking and waiting to strike. For his life truly wasn't as amazing, as wonderful, as _perfect_ as it seemed. It was fantasy. Utter fantasy. Not one ounce of it was true. All lies. And, boy, was he good at telling them by now.

The stately manor was an illusion. Truly it was. He had cast the spell himself onto the two-story rundown and likely condemned building. He magically sealed the large cracks in the sidewalk that could eat a grown man and continued this ritual of applying the seal every night since in the wee hours of the morning. At the wretched, infernal creatures who positively looked like they had been some child's toy that had been squeezed too much over the years, he'd snap and snarl at them to repair the broken home before the neighbors saw, threatening to torture the horrid beings into lifelessness. Once more, he showed how he was his father's son.

His wife, oh how he wished she just dissolved into the puddle of filth she was. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was doing behind his back. And with whom she was doing it with. Of all the men that idiot woman could have cheated on him with, she chose the pool boy. What an utter overused cliché that was. Then again, he supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised by this. It wasn't as if the woman ever had an original idea in any of the years he had known her. Hell, Pansy Parkinson, the dumb witch he had dated all through his Hogwarts years, had more original ideas than his wife. Which was saying something.

Then came his sweet, adorable children. Who weren't even his. He could've killed the worthless woman for that. There she was, showing the two angels off for the world to see and telling him how beautiful _their_ children were. _Their_. As if the two children were his. Oh, yes, because clearly somewhere in _his_ family line there was red hair. Red HAIR! Red! Like the flames he desperately wanted to burn her with. Red! Like the blood that was going to pour out of her for even insinuating such a thing. RED! R-E-D! He was a Malfoy, not a goddamn Weasley. His children were not redheads. Never in the history of the Malfoys had there been a red-haired child. NEVER! Selective breeding came with a hell of a benefit after all. Yet, there she was, telling anyone who would listen all about _their_ red-haired children.

Oh, how the press ate that up. The first Malfoys to be born with red hair in the history of mankind. The stories ran for months. Practically everyone in the entire world, Muggle or otherwise, likely heard about it. In fact, some people even thought that these two children were signaling the end of the world because of their hair color. Though, he had a feeling that Blaise or Theo were behind those rumors. He wouldn't have put it past his old schoolyard friends.

Don't get him wrong. He loved his two kids. And he did semi-consider them as his deep down in his heart. As it was, he sure as hell wouldn't leave them with their idiot mother. He wasn't a monster after all. In fact, he'd likely dye their hair or cast a spell on it or something to fix the wrongs that were in his life. It seemed the more humane thing to do than to disown them entirely.

So there it was. The truth at last. Finally. In these little moments with just himself, the truth always prevailed. He hadn't mastered lying to himself after all.

Drawing in a slow breath a moment later, he groaned and peeked one eye open. That bottle of wine seemed good about now. It'd only be his sixth bottle that week. He snorted and shook his head. If only it was the good old days again. Minus the Death Eaters of course. If it had been only those days still, then his problem of his moronic wife would be over. Then again, he could always just kill her.

He entertained this idea for a long while, nursing his second glass of wine that night. Divorce was unheard of. In fact, that'd likely be seen as the second sign of the apocalypse. A Malfoy divorcing. Impossible. No. No. Murder was clearly the best option he had available. Hell, in fact, he had known of five cases in his family tree where it had happened with difficult marriages. Mostly after a Squib was born. So, murder it was, he decided. But how.

He swirled his wine, deep in thought. The Killing Curse was too good for her. Not to mention, it didn't provide him with enough satisfaction. Two words, green light, and her body stiffening, dead. Hardly an appropriate manner deserving of her. He could always torture her beforehand, but that was messy. And Malfoys hate messy. In fact, messy always reminded him of his days with his dear sweet Aunt Bella and many memories that he so wished he could forget. So, torture was likely out. He could always contract it out, but that was so impersonal. And, boy, did she deserve his personal touch for this.

One-by-one, he went through the various methods his father had taught him. Nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed worthy. Appropriate. Though, he did find the idea of a house falling on her quite comical, but he didn't know how he could pull that off without being caught. So that was out.

Heaving a loud sigh of defeat, he downed his last glass for the night. He'd have to think on it more clearly. Shaking his head, he slowly pushed himself up to stand. Tomorrow he'd have the perfect method. He was sure of it. Drying himself off, he quickly dressed in loose sweatpants and headed for the door.

He stopped at the nursery, pausing for just a moment to smile at his two little angels. They really were beautiful. If only he could just get rid of that damn red hair. Seeing that the two children were still fast asleep, he turned away and headed for the master bedroom. Idly, he wondered if his wife was away shagging the pool boy again tonight, but he quickly shook this thought off not truly caring an ounce.

He had just reached the threshold to his bedroom when he heard the soft pop of a house elf. He frowned and glanced at the horrid thing.

"What?" he growled, smirking inwardly when he heard its whimper.

"A witch is here to see yous, Master Malfoy," the small creature replied, shaking.

His eyes narrowed before he waved the house elf away. A witch? Here to see him? Who could it possibly be? He glanced at the clock on the mantel, but shook away his questions. He'd have his answers soon.

Walking down the stairs a moment later, he stopped on the second to last landing at the sight of her. He swallowed instinctively. Was he dreaming? Was this real? Was-?

"Malfoy?" said the woman he had dreamt of exclusively for years.

"Granger?" He noticed her instinctive flinch instantly and sighed silently. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this quaint little visit, hmm?" He tried to keep the harshness out of his voice the best he could, but time was a bitter thing.

The woman of his youth quickly stood a little taller with her back even straighter. When she spoke, it wasn't with the familiarity that he was used to. No, instead she was colder, more reserved than he had ever heard be before.

"I regret to inform you that your wife was found—"

"Dead?" he calmly interrupted. When she inclined her head slowly, he glanced away. What did he know, miracles did in fact happen. "I see." He remained quiet for several minutes, letting the silence fall around them. However, at the sound of her heel scuffing the floor, he turned back and raised one eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing."

He scoffed. "I'd have thought you'd be a better liar by now, considering our past together." He watched the anger flash behind her eyes instantly.

"Excuse me?"

Shrugging, he smirked. "Oh come now, Granger. You know precisely what I'm talking about." He stood firm as she stalked towards him with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

"I don't think I do, Malfoy."

Well, if she was going to play it that way then. "Now, now. We mustn't tell lies," he chided, watching the fire that he so loved ignite.

"Shut it!"

He smirked playfully, leaning towards her. "Poor Weasley doesn't even know, does he? About our sordid affair back in the day?" He shrugged. "Then again, the idiot rarely could see anything but pastries. So, what's he up to now? Hmm? Three-sixty by now? Or is he larger yet?" When she didn't respond, he chuckled warmly. "Oh, my, my, my. Weasley's even bigger than that? However do you manage to . . . satisfy yourself? Perhaps I could . . ."

She screamed out in utter frustration before she quickly turned around. "Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy."

He watched her storm towards the door and smiled inwardly, entirely pleased with himself. There was only one reason she would be running like this. A reason he had hoped for years was still true. And here was his sign that he was correct. Deep down underneath it all, the bitterness and time lost, she still cared for him. He'd wear down her impassivity one of these days and see the woman he loved so much once more. He had, after all, done it before. Oh, yes, indeed. He would win her heart back from that weasel and show her that he was the better man that she had once claimed he was. For this time, he would not let her walk out of his life.

Therefore, with a warm smile, he called out to her, speaking in his soft loving voice that he reserved only for her, "So, dinner, then? Say 7 o'clock?" He calmly watched her sharply turn around. "Excellent. It's a date then, Hermione." His smile deepened as her eyes widened. "One I believe that is long past due, don't you agree?" He could see her fighting with herself and laughed silently. "We may have been schoolchildren, then, but time has shown me now that I was an idiot for ever letting you go. Don't you feel the same?" He watched her for a few moments, battling with herself before she finally glanced away. "It's why you don't wear your wedding ring, isn't it? Because your heart doesn't belong with him?" He could see her tremble slightly and sighed. He wouldn't push her. That was why she had run in the first place all those years ago. "Well, then, I'm certain you need to get ready, so I'll leave you to it. Good night, Hermione. Until later."

She stared at him for a long while before nodding numbly and turning away. It was a start. For now, he'd take it.


End file.
